


pointing at the moon

by amillionsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, LISTEN I JUST GET RLY EMO ABOUT FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS OK, it figures that my first foray into haikyuu is a siblings fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:17:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Every family is an accident of light.





	pointing at the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostinwander (the_silverdoe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_silverdoe/gifts).



> hello friends.... i am so many years late to this party but here i am sliding into a new fandom...

 

_“He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.” -Richard Siken_

.

.

.

.

 

Every family is an accident of light.  An arrangement of constellated parts.  Tsukishima Kei is born into his on September 27, under the fluorescent hum of a small hospital in Miyagi prefecture.

Akiteru, seven years old, pokes his baby brother.  There’s no malice in the gesture, only curiosity.  His finger leaves a slight indent in the dough-like rolls of Kei’s arm, a pale print against scrubbed-red skin, enough to make Kei screw up his face and squirm away.

“Akiteru,” their mother scolds.  “Be gentle.”

“I am.” He pouts, then considers.  “How long until we can play?”

Their mother bites back a smile.  “Give him time.  Here, Kei, turn around.  This is your brother, see?”

A jiggling, a repositioning of the arms cradling him.  Kei blinks with golden-brown eyes and looks, and looks, and looks.

 

☽

 

The photographer is trying his best.

“Tsukki,” he says, snapping his fingers above his head.  He tries for singsong, breaking the syllables up: “ _Tsu-_ kki.  Over here.”

_Tch,_ Kei thinks, right as the shutter clicks.  He’s only four but has settled into a default look of disgruntlement.  This whole picture thing is a nuisance—he’d much rather be watching Godzilla at home.  Or even playing at the pool.  That’s saying something: the community pool is usually too loud for Kei’s tastes, and he hates the hyperactive kids who needlessly splash water in his face with all their flailing, but sometimes Akiteru will take a break from practicing his breaststroke and come over to the kiddie pool, where he lets Kei clamber onto his back and they slosh from one corner of the tiny trapezoid to the next.  Then it’s everyone else’s turn to scatter, Kei gloating from his vantage point.  Summer kings, the two of them. 

“Kei, please cooperate,” their mother says, and the fantasy cuts short.

Next to her, Akiteru plays on his Game Boy.  Kei’s older brother is easy with his smiles and has perfected the art of leveraging them as currency: five minutes of cheerful posing in exchange for fifteen minutes of electronics time, and it’s only worth that much because coaxing the younger Tsukishima out of his shell, meanwhile, is like pulling teeth. 

Kei sulks further.

The photographer shoots him a harried look, eyes darting around for some prop to salvage the situation.

“We’re almost done, Tsukki-chan,” he wheedles.  “What’s something you like? Can you think of that?”

“He likes dinosaurs,” says Akiteru.  An oversimplification—Akiteru likes dinosaurs, and Kei wants to be like his brother, so he likes what Akiteru likes, but.  It works, for the circumstances.

Relieved, the photographer nods.  “There we go, then.  Show me your teeth, like… like Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

A terrible comparison, Kei thinks, because the King of Dinosaurs wouldn’t bare his teeth for just _anybody,_ but right when he’s about to wrinkle his nose, Akiteru curls his hands into claws and sticks out his tongue, a goofy rendition of a velociraptor about to bite the unsuspecting photographer’s elbow.

Kei grins.

 

☽

 

Akiteru goes through phases.  There are the early swim meets, where Kei spends so much time poolside inhaling chlorine that he gives himself headaches, though Mom always treats him to a strawberry popsicle afterwards.  Soccer, which has Akiteru convinced he should use his feet for _everything._ He has Kei toss him hackysacks and stuffed animals so he can bounce them off the side of his shoes, until Mom yells at both of them to get out of the kitchen and take it outside.  Baseball is Kei’s least favorite: hot, sticky, with perpetually dusty benches.  Plus, since Akiteru’s in the outfield, Kei never gets to see him do anything cool.  (This problem is remedied, somewhat, by realizing that Kei needs glasses, but even sharper vision fails to make the game much more exciting.) Basketball lasts for a season, long enough for Akiteru to beg for a hoop in their backyard, and Kei falls asleep to the steady beat of dribble drills every night.  

All of these pale in comparison to volleyball, which Akiteru decides on in his second year of junior high.  He doesn’t fall in love with it so much as launch himself toward it, with all the passion and energy that only a teenage boy going into his growth spurt can provide.

“Your son’s really taken a shine to the sport,” says somebody’s dad.  On the court, Akiteru has just gotten a receive and then immediately popped out to the wing, calling for the toss.  His name means _clear, bright light._   He is impossible to look away from.

“Thank goodness,” Mom laughs.  “I’m so happy he’s found his thing.  Now to worry about this one.”  She ruffles Kei’s hair.

Kei doesn’t say anything.  The metal railing is cool against the underside of his chin as he peers over its edge, watching.  The ball makes contact with Akiteru’s hand. _Swoosh.  Smack._ It drops on the other team’s side; immediately, the boy closest to Akiteru whoops and claps him on the back.  Someone else comes behind him, pulling at Akiteru’s purple jersey and shaking him slightly in congratulations.  Amidst it all, Akiteru’s gaze sweeps toward the stands, where he flashes a peace sign at Kei.  In the gym lighting, his teeth spark pearly-white, a gleaming crescent—and that’s when Kei knows. 

He doesn’t need to go through the entire circuit of sports.  In some ways, he’s a complicated child, but when it comes to this: simple.

Akiteru is good at volleyball, so Kei wants to be good at it, too.

 

☽

_I’m Tsukishima Kei, 133 cm, and my brother’s the ace of Amemaru Junior High!_

☽

_I’m Tsukishima Kei, 137 cm, and my brother plays for Karasuno!_

☽

Yamaguchi joins three weeks into Kei’s time at the youth league.  He’s a fidgety creature.  Coach puts them together because it becomes obvious that Kei is the only person Yamaguchi knows; once paired, Yamaguchi sticks fast.  Kei respects it, even if he doesn’t understand it.  He’s used to following Akiteru; it’s nice to have someone trailing after _him,_ for a change.

“Wah, Tsukki, you can almost touch the top of the net!” Yamaguchi says after they finish jumping drills.  His freckles tend to pop when he gets excited, and they stand in stark relief now, as he hands Kei a water bottle.

“Yeah.” Kei makes a show of stretching his arms over his head.  For most of the other kids, jumping drills are a chance to practice their approach: left-right-left-up- _spike._   The majority of them don’t have the control—or the height—to even dream of blocking, yet.  But Kei’s seen Akiteru’s junior high matches and knows what’s on the horizon.  He may be only eleven, but he’s already learned the art of thinking ahead.  _Volleyball is just as mental as it’s physical, so study hard, okay?_ Akiteru always says, and Akiteru’s the ace, so it figures he’d know best. 

Even though he still won’t let Kei come to one of his Karasuno games.  But Kei has a test coming up.  If he gets a good grade on that, he can probably use it as a bargaining chip.

To Yamaguchi, he brags, “I haven’t even hit my growth spurt yet.”

“Man, I wish I were taller.  Is your brother really tall?”

“He’s pretty tall,” Kei considers.  “Last time I went in for a check-up, though, the doctor said I might end up taller.”

Looking at his hand-me-down shoes, he tries to picture it.  Taller than Akiteru—what would that feel like?

Coach’s whistle blows, signaling the end of their water break. 

“Will you be my passing partner?” Yamaguchi requests, as if Kei were going to pass with anyone else.

Nodding, Kei sets his stance.  Over the weekend, Akiteru worked with him on receiving, and he channels as much of the lessons as he can now.  _Lift with your body, not just your arms._   Moonlight glancing off the beaten rim of the basketball hoop, the volleyball set in motion.  How he’d heard, rather than seen, the ball bounce perfectly off the backboard and through the net, because he’d really been watching Akiteru the whole time.  The easy way his brother carried himself.  No awkwardly long limbs, just a steady confidence.  Faith and training enough to believe the receive would hold true.

Yamaguchi tosses.  A bit short—Kei steps forward to meet it, resisting the urge to let his arms break apart.  His forearms meet the ball and it goes soaring, arcing perfectly back to Yamaguchi’s hands.

“Nice job, Tsukishima,” Coach says as he passes by, and Kei gets a small thrill.

_Connections are important in volleyball,_ Akiteru told him, and for the first time, Kei lets himself beam at Yamaguchi.  He’s made the pass.  He has a friend.

Things are finally coming together.

 

◐

Just as easily, things fall apart.

The court registers in bursts.  The squeak of volleyball shoes, the crowd a dull roar.  And Akiteru, across the way, wide-eyed and wordless.

_Hey Kei, come here, I have something for you!_

His brother the amateur magician, conjuring Hi-Chews from behind his ears.  His brother the master of misdirection: _ah, no, you shouldn’t come to my games, that’ll make me nervous._

_Just like in middle school._

_Ace, ace, ace._

Out of the corner of his eye, someone waves a newspaper at him, snatches of words like _“I told you—”_ and _“Little Giant.”_

“We get it!” says Yamaguchi, keeping the boy at bay.  Distantly, Kei notes it as the first time he’s seen his friend angry.

There’s no part of him that hasn’t been shaped by his brother: the dinosaurs, the taste for strawberry shortcake, the volleyball.  Reflective, the two of them. 

It is a hard lesson to learn, at eleven.  That an older brother is just a person, after all, and the halo around Tsukishima Akiteru follows the same laws of the moon—its shine comes from borrowed light.

Kei turns away.  There’s nothing left to see, now.

 

◐

 

After the betrayal, they stop looking each other in the eye.  Or—Kei stops, and Akiteru doesn’t press.  Kei sequesters himself in his room and ignores the telltale sound of Akiteru returning from practice, the false cheer behind every evening’s: _I’m home._

So it’s an accident, when he stumbles upon Akiteru crying.  Volleyball season has ended, and the air in the house feels stiller for it.  Kei is on the cusp of adolescence but not quite bold enough to challenge his mother’s bed-by-10:30 PM _-_ mandate—tonight, though, the midnight cravings prove stronger than usual.  On his tiptoe back from the kitchen, he hears.  Somebody’s sobbing, a strangled half-noise forced through gritted teeth.  Akiteru’s bedroom door is open just a fraction, and when Kei looks inside, he glimpses his older brother hunched over.  His forehead presses against the carpet, fists curled around his Karasuno jacket. 

It’s just like Akiteru, to punish himself this way, Kei thinks—to not even offer himself the softness of crying face down on his bed instead. 

Once, when Kei was nine and Akiteru was sixteen, they’d been walking home and one of the streetlights had exploded overhead.  Akiteru yanked him out of the way before any of the glass dust could fall on his head, but the pop and hiss of it lingered in Kei’s ears the rest of the way.  It’s strange to think of it now. 

He’d looked it up, later. Why lightbulbs explode.  Something to do with leaking gas, and not being able to sustain the change in pressure.  So maybe it’s the same with people: you care and care so much, but the effort goes nowhere, and the hope drains away, until your heart can’t make up the difference.  Until it gives out.

 

◐

 

Just like the doctors predicted, Kei ends up taller than his brother.

Mom has them stand back to back the minute Akiteru comes through the door.  Since Akiteru started his office job and moved out, Kei’s had to bear the brunt of their mom’s attention, which largely manifests itself in her continuously shoveling food onto his plate.  So maybe it’s not that much of a surprise, that he ends up bigger.  It’s just simple logic.

The differences between them show in other ways.  Akiteru has the broader shoulders, the darker blond hair, the open expression.  Kei is tall, but in a way that hasn’t quite managed to escape being gangly, and at sixteen he has perfected a look of careful neutrality that easily tips into distaste.

Akiteru spends most of dinnertime updating their mom about his new life: his coworkers, his apartment.  Kei tries to finish eating as fast as he can, but despite his best plans he still ends up on dish duty.

Akiteru leans against the doorframe, hesitant.  “I heard…” He starts, stops.  “Mom told me you’re playing for Karasuno.”

Kei focuses on the plate in his hands, the rushing water of the faucet filling his ears.  He’d debated it for a long time.  Weighed options, wondering whose footsteps he was following, what he was trying to prove.  They play different positions, anyways.  Middle blocker versus wing spiker.  And Akiteru left no shadow to live up to on Karasuno’s court, so their paths have already diverged.

“Yes,” he says simply, drying his hands.  He goes to his room.

 

◐

 

_Tsukishima Kei. 188 cm._

 

☾

 

If you asked Kei what he liked about dinosaurs, he’d say “They’re cool,” and leave it at that.  If you had the nerve to press him further, then: something about their sheer majesty, the feral edge, what it would have taken to be at the top of the food chain in the Mesozoic era.

But every reign, even that of lizard kings, must end.  It’s probably why Kageyama, for all his pompousness, strikes little fear in Kei’s heart.

No, it’s the smaller one of the freakish duo that haunts him, some nights.  The dinosaurs’ problem was that they didn’t know to recognize a blaze of light for what it was.  Kei knows.  From the corner of his eye, he watches Karasuno’s decoy take off, eyes bright and burning with appetite.

Hinata is his meteor.

 

☾

 

Shinzen’s training camp takes everything Kei likes about volleyball and beats it with a stick.  His belly gets scraped raw from diving to the floor during punishment drills.  They run too many laps.  And it’s all because nobody on his team—nobody in the camp, even—knows the meaning of moderation.  Even Yamaguchi gets a fire in his eyes, and all for what? A simple high school club.

The other teams are worse, though, because they don’t know Kei well enough to take his “no” for an answer.  Hence how he ends up blocking for Bokuto.  Every whisper of air as the ball skims past his fingers for the cross is a mockery; more grating, though, are the balls that hit his hands and drop between him and the net on the way down, or the ones that careen off his palms and out of bounds.

So he watches Kuroo, because Kei’s mind is the one muscle that rivals (or outlasts—in the case of the Shrimp) his teammates’ in stamina.  He learns the difference between a soft block and a kill block, how to channel the strength towards his fingers, feels his blood sing.

Kuroo notices.  He’s a bit of an overbearing uncle, that way.  A little self-assured for Kei’s tastes, and a lazy grin that can become grating, but he’s got an easy way of dispensing advice that reminds Kei of—

Kei clamps down on the thought, winds the tape around his fingers tighter.

“Yo, Nobukatsu-kun,” says Kuroo, stretching languidly.  “Good work today.”

“Thanks.”  Bokuto had gone extra hard to make up for his meltdown during their match earlier today.  It’s refreshing to realize that even a top player like Bokuto can self-destruct, and Kei’s filed that information away to add to his mental game.

“You know,” Kuroo offers—and Kei perks up, slightly, anticipating advice—"I think you and Kenma would get along.”

Kei frowns.  Kenma, Nekoma’s brain.  He doesn’t agree; Kenma is too quiet, and Kei is not someone who enjoys coaxing out others, unlike Hinata, but he does remember Kenma getting the upper hand on Kageyama, and for that, Kei respects him.  He can recognize a fellow tactician when he sees one.

“You’re both rather elusive creatures,” Kuroo is saying.

At that, Kei bristles.  He straightens to his full height.  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he challenges.

In the background, the squeak of volleyball shoes.  Bokuto whining: _Another one, Akaashi, just one more._

Kuroo smiles.  His eyes gleam, knowing.  “Yes, you certainly are.”

 

☾

 

Volleyball is a collection of moments.  As such, Kei never lets himself bask in one for too long.  Instead, he learns to read them, anticipate them, plan ahead.

But the upcoming tournament looms like a wall: Shiratorizawa and the threat of Ushiwaka, the hawkish face staring down its nose at Karasuno’s murder of crows.

The odds say Karasuno will lose.

For the first time, Kei thinks: _forget_ _the odds._

 

☾

 

He’s surprised to see Akiteru when he comes home.

“Mom didn’t say you were visiting,” he says, careful as he always is with his older brother these days.  He sits down on the porch, resting his elbows on his knees.  For a moment, neither of them speaks, the only sound the repeated _thunk_ of Akiteru tossing his volleyball against their basketball backboard.

“How was training camp?” Akiteru finally asks.

“It was fine.” Kei flicks an errant bug off his knee.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to you.”

Kei stiffens.  Maybe he’s not the only one who’s changed; the old Akiteru used to tiptoe around his silences, not meet it head-on.  “Has it?” asks Kei, trying to play the whole thing off.

He wants to ask something else, too.  It’s been bothering him more, lately, like an errant firefly blinking on and off.

“What is it, Kei?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.  The one where you really want to know an answer.  So what’s the question?”

And it figures, that Akiteru would be able to read him this way, even though he’s gone and moved out.  Akiteru knew him when he was a blank slate, before he learned to lie, or hide, or turn away.

“Are you still playing?”

Akiteru blinks, taken aback, before smiling.  “Of course.  I have a team too, you know.  We go to tournaments and everything.” 

It’s not as strange to imagine as Kei thought it would be.  He takes a second to let the information soak in, wondering what color Akiteru’s team uniforms are.  Akiteru probably suggested they order matching T-shirts, because he’s that kind of person.

“I know you’re probably wondering why… especially after high-school,” continues Akiteru.  The faintest wisps of embarrassment hang off the edges of his words, but he forges ahead.  “But it’s _because_ it was like that.  All the struggle, wondering if it was worth it.  I want to be in a place where I can do my best until I’m satisfied.”

The moon is out.  It touches upon Akiteru’s hair, turning it a paler blonde.  Not a halo or crown—those days are past.  It’s not the glorious showboating of their younger years, or the half-hearted posturing of high school.  It’s a quieter resolve.

Akiteru catches the ball in one hand and tucks it under his arm, tipping his face toward the sky. 

He looks at peace.  He looks like someone to be proud of.

 

☾

 

When it happens, it is only a moment.  When Kei replays it, he’ll be able to recall everything that lead up to that point: the tips from Kuroo and Coach Ukai, the ribbing from Bokuto.  The sessions with the Kaji Wild Dogs, that first glorious burst of satisfaction when he blocked Akaizawa, Akiteru’s rancorous yell in the background.  The finger tape, the bruised arms, the running drills, the burn in his quads, every deadening thump of his feet returning to the ground.

Right now, though, none of that matters except the fraction of a second it takes for him to get in the air.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object.  Ushiwaka’s spike drops to the ground.

The crowd roars.

.

.

.

.

●

 

_“Hey!”_ Glaring, Kei rubs the spot on his head that Akiteru has just flicked.

“No more thinking,” says his older brother.  “You did enough of that today.”

He can’t stop.  That’s what Kei does: analyzes to the point of obsession, sometimes.  And he’d told Yamaguchi that he planned on stopping _at least a few_ of Ushiwaka’s spikes.  One is not a few.

Akiteru sighs, shifting sideways on the porch.  His tongue is stained blue from his ramune popsicle.  Kei’s drips, stickily, onto the side of his hand.

“I know you’re thinking: it was just one block.  But that’s volleyball and life, right?  Things can change on a dime.  Sometimes it only _takes_ one block.  One moment.” 

_If you experience that moment, it’ll really get you hooked on volleyball._   Bokuto’s words.

And Kei is thinking of the other game-changing moments of his life: tied to volleyball, maybe, but more so to his brother.  That first time, watching Akiteru play.  The sharp slice of betrayal later.  The awkward conversations, the sports glasses.  The way the court took Akiteru from him, but it gave Akiteru back, too, in their practices with the Kaji Wild Dogs—how once, during a match, Kei fell for the tip, and who should be behind to dig it up but his brother, with a wink and a grin.  Kei had thought, then, of Kageyama and Hinata, or Aoba Johsai’s Oikawa and Iwaizumi, their perfect trust.  _How lucky I am to not have had to search for it.  To have had it handed to me, from the moment I was born._  

Every family is an accident of light.  Tsukishimas, the two of them, with a relationship that will wax and wane like any moon but that endures, indelible.

“I hate it when you try to make me feel better,” says Kei, balling up the wrapper from his popsicle and tossing it at Akiteru.  He can feel the corners of his mouth rising; he turns to go inside before Akiteru can catch his mood-shift and gloat. 

“Hey! Kei!” protests Akiteru, slow on the catch-up.  Kei makes a mental note to tease him about old man’s knees, later.  “Clean up your trash!”

“Make me,” Kei taunts.

Akiteru nails him in the back of the head.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware)


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